


and you (or your memory)

by Ejunkiet



Series: through the centuries [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Found Family, an examination of Nate’s relationship with love over the years, and an early insight into the Ava and Nate dynamic, modern flashback, set mid-to-late 1800s, soft and tender emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26432140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: Nathaniel Sewell writes letters and falls in love.-He sits like a ghost in the shadows of their unlit apartment, his elegant scrawl littering the papers around them, fragments of letters crumpled and unfinished. My dearest heart-
Relationships: Ava du Mortain & Nathaniel Sewell, Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: through the centuries [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926820
Comments: 29
Kudos: 63
Collections: A series of familiar letters





	1. part one: spilled ink and parchment

**Author's Note:**

> Ava and Nate in a shared apartment in Paris, mid-to-late 1800s (modern flashbacks coming in later chapters).

### part one: spilled ink and parchment

\--

Ava finds him in a state of general undress on the floor of their shared apartment. 

Back hunched against the frame of his bed, there are scraps of paper scattered about him - letters, she realises, crumpled and unfinished. His hair is unbound, hanging loose and curling around his shoulders, and a mostly finished bottle of an expensive Macallan sits at his side.

He looks - tired. Exhausted, even as he glances up at her entrance and forges a smile, shifting in his slouch against the bed frame, and breathing in, she can taste the sharp pang of his distress, although there is no obvious cause for it.

Exhaling sharply, she catches his gaze, holds it. “Nathaniel.”

“Ava,” he replies, holding her gaze for a long, drawn out moment before he looks away. 

He runs his fingers through his hair, tangling them within the strands as he surveys the mess of paper around him. The woodsmoke taste of whiskey is strong on his breath. 

“I am… less than myself. I apologise, dear friend.”

Her words aren’t unkind, but they don’t soften as much as they could. “I can see that.”

They’ve been stationed in Paris for the last six months, a relatively short stay as far as most diplomatic missions go. She’d spent the day at the embassy discussing human political matters with representatives of the British government, a frustrating and near-pointless task, and she finds herself drained of energy and at the edge of her patience. 

She softens, though, as Nathaniel looks down, abashed, his cheeks flushed. Letting out a soft breath, she moves a step closer, looking carefully at the pile of documents by his feet.

Recognising his handwriting on the rumpled sheets, she realises these letters are from his private correspondence - a task he took to with meticulous care on the second Friday of every month, like clockwork. It’s unlike him, to treat such materials with anything but the greatest care - and the pieces come together. 

Shrugging off the heavy knit of her winter coat, she drapes it across a nearby chair, the fabric stiff with the chill that settles over the streets of Paris at this time of year, before making her way across the room. 

He shifts to make room for her as she pulls to a stop by his feet, knocking into a stack of unmarked paper at his side, sending the sheets scattering across the floor. Ava doesn't comment as she takes the seat, her boots scuffing against the floor as she settles her weight back against the bed frame.

Gesturing at the whiskey, she addresses the bottle at his side. "Do you have another glass?"

Up close, she can see to what extent the events of the day have taken their toll on him, his skin dull and faded, the strain that tightens his features and deepens the furrow between his brows. He looks between her and the bottle, and he looks embarrassed as he tilts it. 

With good cause, she notes, eyeing the depth of the bottle: it’s three-fifths gone, and he's been drinking straight from the neck.

Catching her eye once more, he opens his mouth to apologise, but she shakes her head, a wry smile on her lips. 

"The bottle will be fine."

She gestures for it, and he passes it to her, his fingers brushing her own, chilled by his proximity to the window. Reaching behind her with her other hand, she grabs the throw blanket from the bed, wrapping the worn wool around their shoulders.

Once the blanket is settled, she tries the whiskey. It goes down easier than expected, a pleasant burn at the back of her throat, and tilting the bottle, she can recognise it as one from his private stock, usually saved for special occasions. 

Taking a breath, she decides there’s no skirting around it. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

“It’s...” He looks away, fingers tangling in his hair, ink stains on his skin. “It’s nothing.

It’s clearly not. She doesn’t dignify that with a response, and the seconds pass, marked by the heavy tick of the standing clock in the corner. She waits. Her patience has weathered centuries, it can weather this.

After another moment or two of this, he releases a slow breath in a sigh of defeat.

"Ellie… Miss Eleanor Woodbury wrote to me, a fortnight ago. She's to be married."

It takes a moment for Ava to place the name, come up with the image of a young face, delicate and pretty. Chestnut hair, almond shaped eyes, a scattering of freckles. A debutante from North Carolina that they’d made an acquaintance with several years - no, nearly a decade, ago.

Miss Eleanor Woodbury. Ellie, in Nathaniel’s letters, pages of soft words and gentle compliments, politics and poetry. He doesn’t talk about it often, and Ava doesn’t ask him - he knows what she’d say, regardless.

“When is the ceremony?”

“It was today.” He smiles, and it’s tremulous, wavering. “She timed it well.”

“Did you know about the engagement?”

A flash of pain crosses his expression, creased in the furrow of his brow, and he looks away. 

“I did not.”

She cannot say she is surprised. It’s in the nature of humans to act like this - to shy away from what they don’t understand, to hurt without care or remorse. 

But still, the anger simmers in her gut, a flush of heath that licks at her throat, makes her miss the weight of her blade in her hand. She takes another swig of the bottle instead, swallowing hard, fingers tightening around the stem until she can hear the glass crack. 

When she’s done, he’s watching her, and she can see the redness of his eyes, the way his hands shake, although he does his best to hide it, clasping them tightly in his lap.

She needs to say something. Her hands clasp together tightly in her lap in lieu of tightening into fists. “Nathaniel-”

He cuts her off with a gentle shake of his head and a soft smile. “It’s okay, Ava.”

She watches him for another long moment, the dark whisper of his lashes across his cheek; thinks of the years they’ve spent together, the moments they’ve shared, side by side. 

Leaning in, she does what she can - she offers him her shoulder, and it’s with a gentle gust of a sigh that he takes it, his hair draping over her shirt, spilling onto her collar. 

He smells like ink: iron and oak and acacia sap. She can see the stain of it on his fingers, finds flecks of it on his collar, his cuffs, the front of his shirt. It’s with great care that he attends to his correspondence, and seeing him here, dishevelled and half-drunk, the smell of whiskey strong on his breath, makes her feel as if something is fundamentally wrong, the world shifted on its axis.

She has grown to hate these letters and what they represent: a weakness in him that despite all his years, he can’t seem to shift. His longing for love and to be loved. His infatuation with what he can never have.

(And she has long since reconciled herself to her own truth: the companionship Ava can bring him is not enough.)

He exhales against her, a soft sound that loosens the tightness in her chest, tempers the anger sitting, stagnant and heavy, in her gut. She remembers how this had felt, once (a long time ago).

“I’m sorry,” she says to the quiet, and the words feel unfamiliar on her tongue. He startles when he hears it, head tilting back on her shoulder until he can meet her gaze, his eyes dark, pupils dilated wide in the dim light. He knows what it means for her to say it.

Slowly, tentatively, he extends a hand, and after a moment of hesitation, she takes it. His palm is warm, soft against the rough calluses of her own.

"Thank you, Ava.” A beat passes, stretching in the silence between them. “I am too.”

His hand feels heavy in hers, but his grip is steady and true as she returns it, and they fall into a comfortable silence, both lost to their own thoughts.

It’s not long after this that she notices that he has fallen asleep, head still on her shoulder, his heart rate slowing as his breaths even out into a calm, relaxing cadence, soft and soothing in the quiet.

Ava places the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the ground beside her before she reaches around to tuck the blanket more firmly around them, pressing in closer as she glances towards the windows and takes in the frost beginning to curl up the frames. 

It won’t be enough to fully ward off the chill, but it should keep them comfortable, for the most part.

Letting her eyes slip shut, she breathes out heavily and lets herself relax against him, a comforting presence at her side, grounding her as she settles in to wait until morning.


	2. nightmares and ateliers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ava.” Nathaniel's voice is soft, cracking with disuse, and she glances back to find his dark eyes on her. There’s a small frown on his lips, and he looks - well, frankly put, terrible: his hair a tangled mess around his face, his face still rumpled with sleep. "I- I didn't mean to-”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [click here for art of chapter one!](https://ejunkiet.tumblr.com/post/630067280589537280/ava-nates-voice-is-soft-cracking-with-disuse)

### part two: nightmares and ateliers

\--

That night, she dreams of him.

He sits like a ghost in the shadows of their unlit apartment, his elegant scrawl littering the papers around them, fragments of letters crumpled and unfinished _._

_My dearest Ellie-_

She looks away, unable to stand the sight of them any longer.

When she looks back at him, the image is gone - changed.

Ava is in _Bretagne_.

There’s a body on a beach, still and silent amongst the rocky pools, unmoving as the waves of the channel crash against its battered form - and she remembers this scene, remembers finding Nathaniel here, many centuries before, back when they both had nothing except bitter memories, steeped in old pain and remembered losses.

His face is streaked with vivid crimson, and the air is heavy with the scent of blood, his navy and golden uniform shredded as it hangs from his narrow frame - and he looks as he did when she found him on that rocky beach, the frigid waters and freezing air leaching the colour from his skin until she’d thought she had stumbled across a corpse.

The ocean crashes down around them, showering sharp, icy droplets across her arms and legs as she wades through the freezing waters to reach him, his heart beating out a weak, sporadic pattern amongst the waves, growing fainter as she closes the ever widening distance, and if she can just _reach him --_

A blink, and the scene is gone again, replaced this time by the familiar landscape of the agency’s infirmary, such as it was then, his beaten and bruised body surrounded by healers and the glow of magic. There are marks on him from the change, recent and barely healed - he was turned on the ship, the healers tell her, and the transition was not an easy one. 

She can see the signs of that now. His limbs have been stretched beyond their limits, violent as they reshape his skin, the new bones raw and aching - and when he does wake, he won’t speak for nearly a month, his dark eyes shadowed, haunted by what he has witnessed.

(The blood that had covered him when she found him was not his own, she later learns, but there’s such pain in his features when she asks about it that she decides that it’s better not to know.)

But now - now he doesn’t wake, and she’s forced to watch as the colour drains from his skin, the light in his eyes dimming until it’s extinguished, and she’s - she’s alone, again.

(She’s standing in a field, surrounded by fire, watching as it burns, taking everything she loves with it, and she is _alone_.)

\--

Ava returns to consciousness with a sharp intake of breath. 

The first light of dawn crests over the horizon. Her heart beats a rapid pace within the confines of her chest and she has to take a moment, taking deep, steady breaths until she regains control.

The weak winter sun shines through the windows, filtering through the wooden shutters they’d forgotten to close the night before. The blanket had done as much as it could to protect them against the encroaching chill, but she still winces at the stiffness of her limbs, even as she limits her movements, trying not to shift her body too much and wake her companion.

Nathaniel is still asleep, his breathing soft and even against her neck, but he stirs as she tilts her head to watch him, dark lashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks as he scrunches his nose against the chill. She has to swallow a smile as he takes in a sharp breath and shivers, letting out a low groan that she can feel against her skin, his mouth still pressed against her shoulder.

He's here, safe and whole. That simple fact eases some of the tension within her, working to dispel the images that still linger from the dream. Not all of them, though.

Letting out a deep breath, she turns to face the window.

Outside, the sky is littered with heavy clouds stained a dusky pink, a warning of worse weather to come, the glass of the windows fogged with condensation and edged with frost. The low pressure system rolling in from the east promises further drops in temperature, and her brow furrows at the prospect of snow. 

“Ava.” His voice is soft, cracking with disuse, and she glances back to find his dark eyes on her. There’s a small frown on his lips, and he looks - well, frankly put, terrible: his hair a tangled mess around his face, his face still rumpled with sleep. "I- I didn't mean to-”

She cuts off his apologies with a soft shake of her head, and he blinks at her in confusion, although his frown eases as she gives him a small smile. 

“It was no hardship, my friend.” Her breath fogs the air in front of her, and she lets out a soft huff of a laugh as she flexes the stiffness from her fingers. “As it turns out, it was necessary.”

He grimaces, although his eyes are warm as he glances away from her towards the window and he suppresses another shiver. “I can see that. I didn’t expect the weather to turn this quickly.”

A quiet, comfortable silent falls between them as they watch the scene outside, the streets below already alive at this hour as the early morning markets prepare to sell their wares, before he clears his throat. “I should, uh-”

He pulls away, his cheeks flushed dark as he stumbles to his feet, socks slipping on the papers they’d left discarded on the floor the night before. She swallows a smile as he flusters, dithering between attending to the mess or his own appearance before the latter apparently wins out, and he makes to move towards the privy, wincing at the stiffness of his limbs.

Once he has left the room, Ava finally moves, swallowing a grimace at the ache in her own body as she straightens from the crouched position she’d adopted for the night. It doesn't take long for the prickling sensation of pins and needles to fade, however, and she quickly tidies the papers, placing them on the desk alongside the quill and the bottle of scotch they’d shared the night before.

Glancing over the label, she memorises the make and year, making a note to purchase another in the markets, and goes about making her own preparations for the day.

When Nathaniel next appears, his hair combed and plaited, his ink-stained shirt replaced by a fresh one of crisp linen and complemented with an embroidered waistcoat and jacket, Ava is ready, her own shirt and trousers covered by the heavy folds of her winter jacket.

“Shall we?”

\--

They take an early breakfast at a cafe on the Seine, the brisk chill of the morning fading as the sun gains distance from the horizon, but still, the memories of the dream haunt her, a lingering shadow, even with the pleasure of his company. 

Resting his teacup back on the porcelain saucer in front of him, Nathaniel levels her with a steady look. He can tell she is distracted, there is little she can keep from him nowadays, although he misreads the cause.

“What time do you need to leave today? You must have meetings.” From the details she’s shared about her business in the city, he knows they will be here for at least a few months more, but she waves him off, fingers playing with the edge of her own cup. The liquid within has long gone cold - Ava can’t stomach tea, and it was far too early for wine.

“None today.” None of any import, anyhow. She has decided to make alternate plans for the day, and she is certain that the ambassador can handle the political proceedings by himself.

Ignoring his dubious look, she gestures for him to finish his cup, turning to watch the ferrymen guide their cargo along the river as he prepares himself to leave. Once he is ready, she reclaims her coat, and they venture into the streets together, navigating the crowds that have started to form as the city begins to awaken.

Nathaniel gives her a curious look when Ava steers them away from the main street, turning the opposite direction from their apartment, although he doesn’t voice the question she can see waiting on his lips. In fact, he doesn’t say much at all as they walk through the city, leaving the narrow avenues behind them as they step onto rue de la Paix, following it to their destination: _Place_ _Vendôme._

His eyes light up at the sight of it, his steps slowing as he takes in the details of the classic architecture he’d always admired. She gives him a moment, enjoying the sight of him, before she leads him across the courtyard to the Atelier _Charvet_ , where an attendant waits for them at the doors.

Nathaniel pauses for a moment outside, his hands clasped in front of him as he turns to face her, satin gloves folded in his grip.

“Ava,” he says, and his eyes are soft, glimmering under the weak rays of the winter sun. “I-"

She cuts him off with a shake of her head, placing her hand on his and squeezing gently. "You don't need to say it."

He smiles. It’s the first true one he’s given today, a small thing but there, and it's as if he'd been expecting her response when he replies. "But I want to." 

He steps in closer, and his eyes are a warm chestnut, flecks of evergreen around the iris. 

"Thank you, Ava."

It’s an easy thing to return his smile, to allow their fingers to interlace as he turns his hand in her grip, and the last of the tightness in her chest that’s followed her since this morning fades. 

Glancing towards the waiting attendant, she inclines her head towards the door. “After you.”

The rest of the morning passes in a whirl of activity: measurements and swatches, tailoring and hats. Nathaniel favors the older styles, to the delight of the atelier who - already charmed by his gentle words and elegant features - insists on supplying him with a cane to complete the look.

Ava watches on from a chair at the periphery, a smile playing on her lips as she sips from her glass of Bordeaux, waving away the attendants who approach her with various accessories for her perusal. She cares little for modern fashion and despises the constricting garments expected of women in this day and age, preferring outfits that allow for ease of mobility over any other alternatives.

She adjusts the cut of her coat to better hide the fact that she is wearing what would be classified as ‘mens wear’ and focuses her attention back on Nathaniel, enjoying the sight of him being fussed over, a gentle warmth settling in her chest as she watches him discuss colour and accents with the tailor.

This may not be something she herself finds much pleasure in, but it’s an experience she’ll gladly share with him. (And it may not be much, but she hopes the activity will serve as a distraction, if nothing else.)

It doesn’t take long for the adjustments to be finalised and Nathaniel is ushered into a curtained room, disappearing from view behind a crowd of attendants as another refills her glass, and she settles down to wait.

When he returns to the main room, Ava has to take a breath.

He looks - dashing. The sharp, clean lines of the waistcoat and jacket accentuate the long, lean cut of him, the dash of gold applique accenting the rich colour of his eyes. Settling the elegant hat on top of his head, he regards himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors before turning to Ava with a pleased smile.

“What do you think?”

“It suits you.” It does - especially with the grin that overtakes his features at the compliment, brilliant and gleaming amongst the low-hanging chandeliers of the ateliers. The warmth in her chest grows, threatening to rise to her cheeks as a certainty firms in her mind - that she would do what it takes to protect him, the bond as strong as any of the familial attachments of her youth.

Finishing her wine, she hands over the notes for the purchase and accompanies him to the door, tightening the fastenings of her coat against the cold as they step out into the brisk chill of winter air.

He offers her his arm and after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it. He looks out at the vast square, his eyes glittering in the cold sunlight. “Shall we?”

She glances at him, taking in the slight flush on his cheeks, the pleasant curl of his lips. “La Tour d'Argent?”

“Of course.”

They step out into the courtyard and into the old districts, navigating winding streets and avenues still shaken from the recent political upheaval, recently settled since Napoleon’s campaigns had moved the conflict to the east. The city itself seems removed from it, the life of the average Parisian continuing in relative peace despite the discontent brewing at its center.

Her eyes are on him as they make their way through the city, watching the shape of his smile, the edge of sadness that lingers within his expression, even now. It will take him months, if not years, to reconcile himself with this loss, long after the woman herself is gone - as it's not the lady herself he mourns, but the idea of it. 

The idea of the love between them, fostered with careful words and gentle intimacy through parchment and ink.

(But this too shall pass.)


	3. Unseen moments in Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nathaniel Sewell smells like ink: iron and oak and acacia sap._
> 
> \--
> 
> Missing scenes and further expansions of this verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were initially posted on my tumblr, and expand the verse a little more.

_**Ava's observations: Nathaniel and Ink** _

Nathaniel Sewell smells like ink: iron and oak and acacia sap.

Ava can see the stain of it on his fingers, finds flecks of it on his collar, his cuffs, the front of his shirt. The inventors of the age have come up with new formulations, less likely to stain and quicker to dry - but he prefers to make his own, cultivating an orchard near to his ancestral home in England, importing the pigments from the continent.

Ink making itself is an intricate, careful process, and the care he takes with it represents only a fraction of the care he takes with the act of letter writing itself. It’s an art, when wielded well, and one that she has not dabbled in herself for almost a millenia.

Seeing the state of him here - dishevelled and half-drunk, the smell of whiskey strong on his breath, makes her feel as if something is fundamentally wrong, the world shifted on its axis.

He sits like a ghost in the shadows of their unlit apartment, his elegant scrawl littering the papers around them, fragments of letters crumpled and unfinished _._

_My dearest Ellie-_

She looks back at him, unable to look at the papers any longer.

\--

_**Paris, the morning after (Nate's POV).  
** _

Nate wakes as the first rays of dawn crest over the horizon. The sun is a miserable thing in the middle of Parisian winter, sending pale, wan light filtering through bottle-thick glass, further diluted by the frost that coats the frames. 

His neck is sore, stiff from holding in one position for too long. He suppresses a shiver, his feet chilled within his thick socks, and he’d be concerned about the risk of frostbite if he hadn’t already known that was impossible. 

Still, he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to risk ending this moment, breaking the peace that has settled over them, in this makeshift bed of crumpled paper and woolen blankets.

Ava is asleep beside him. He can feel the soft rush of her breath against his hair, the steady pace of her heartbeat. She doesn’t need much sleep, catching an hour or two in a night, if that, and so this is a rare moment; he doesn’t get many opportunities to catch her like this. 

He can see the dark brush of her lashes against her cheek, the faint scar that bisects her left brow - too faint for human sight to detect, but there all the same. She looks - different at rest, a younger version of herself without the tension that always creases her brow, stiffens the lines of her face.

He closes his eyes, lets himself settle back against her shoulder, listening to the soft pace of her breathing. He can hear the city beginning to stir outside, the clatter of hooves and the rattle of the carriages, the steady metallic rumble of the local tram. It all feels far away in the quiet of the morning, pleasantly distant.

Ava sighs in her sleep, a soft sound, and his chest feels warm, comfortably filled. He no longer feels the chill of the morning, or the heartbreak that had chased him the previous night. Just, peace.

He’s not yet ready to face the dawn, and so he closes his eyes, choosing instead to return to the depths of sleep.

\--

_**Montmartre, Paris (same trip, later).** _

When the night comes, they take to the lively streets of Montmartre in search of music and entertainment. 

The district is thriving and alive at this hour, filled to bursting with people and colour and sound. It’s almost enough to be overwhelming, and so they turn away from the mainstreet, twisting their way through narrow lanes until they find a small, intimate lounge bar with a handful of patrons and a band setting up for live music.

When the music starts, Nathaniel invites her to dance.

He’s a little taller than usual, Ava notes, and she has to angle her head a little higher to meet his gaze, his new boots providing him with an additional inch of height. His hand is gentle at her waist, his grip on her hand steady and sure as he leads her through the steps.

They’re the only ones on their feet, swaying to the soft rhythm of the music, but she could care less what the other occupants of the saloon thinks; her eyes are on him, and him alone.

His eyes are bright, his cheeks dusted with the beginnings of a flush as she studies him in the faint light, and they could blame it on the copious amounts of alcohol they’ve been drinking, if it weren’t for the fact that she knows his limits, and they haven’t reached them yet.

“Ava.” He whispers as the pace of the song changes, turning more intimate, close, and the steps they’re taking slow in turn. She can smell the scotch on his breath, feel the heat of his hand in hers.

It’s too close to stepping over the thin boundary of their relationship, moving from _good friends_ to _something more,_ and so when the song ends, she gently tugs her hand from his grip, pulling away.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the love letters project on ao3 and tumblr! (find me there as ejunkiet)


End file.
